Heartache Every Moment
by bentheslayer
Summary: One-shot fic. Harry has to deal with saying what might be his final goodbyes to those he cares for - and those he loves. (HHr)


Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, however much I wish I did. Everything remains copyright to the fabulous J.K.Rowling and her respective publishers.

**Author's Notes:**

**1)** Thank you to my ever-wonderful and super-gorgeous beta EllaMarie. Love you hon.

**2)** I know the "night before the final battle" is a storyline used often; I still wanted to write my own take on it though so I hope you'll still read on.

                                     Heartache Every Moment 

It still came a shock, no matter how long he had prepared himself for the moment. He knew it was coming. He had spent two years waiting for it, ever since Dumbledore had revealed the prophecy that linked the fate of his life with Voldemort's. Two years of attempting to prepare himself for what had to come. Two years of training himself for the inevitable battle. And at the same time, two years of preparing himself for the possibility of his death.

The two years didn't matter. It still came as a shock.

- - -

The NEWT exams were finally over, and a celebration like no other was going on in Gryffindor Tower. The kitchens had been plundered for food and drink, a Muggle stereo had been brought down from the girls dormitories and bewitched to pump loud music into the common room, and the famous fireworks of Fred and George Weasley went off at regular intervals. Every Gryffindor was there, enjoying the chance to let off some much-needed steam. It was not just a celebration for the Seventh Years, but a chance for everyone to simply have some fun, not something that happened often in the dark times troubling the wizarding world those days. The last two years had seen Voldemort and his Death Eaters grow bolder, whilst the Ministry could seemingly do nothing. Many Aurors fell. The Dark Mark was seen in the sky far too often, and the old feeling of fear and despair had begun to seep into the wizarding population of the country. The students of Hogwarts were no exception to this, as news filtered to them from family and of course the _Daily Prophet._ Many were scared.

But that evening was not a time for fear, but for fun and enjoyment. Even Harry Potter, who was privy to more specific information about Voldemort's actions from Professor Dumbledore, was managing to forget about his troubles for a short time. The happy mood in the room was just too infectious. People chatted and joked heartily, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen so many smiling faces. Harry was sitting alone by the window, a smile on his own face as he watched Ron, Dean and Lavender attempting to get Hermione to dance with them. She seemed very embarrassed and was moving very awkwardly compared to the others, who were jumping around and swaying with the abandonment of those who'd indulged in many butterbeers. She glanced over at him as if to say "Help me!" which made him grin even more, but he shook his head at her which earned him a tongue being poked out at him. He was an even worse dancer than she was and wasn't about to embarrass himself too.

It was beginning to get late now. Darkness had fallen outside; the party had started as soon as the last exam had finished and everyone was still in their school robes. The more energetic Gryffindors were still dancing but many were now simply lounging around, chatting and swapping jokes merrily. Harry, Ron and Hermione were seated in their usual chairs by the fire, talking happily about everything and nothing. For the first time in a long time Harry simply felt happy, and a look between the three of them confirmed that they all felt it. Being there together in front of the warmth of the fire was all that they needed.

Harry had spoken the least of the three of them that evening. He watched his two best friends talk and reflected on how much they had changed from when they had first been thrust together: Ron had been a gangly boy, ashamed of his hand-me-down robes and second-hand wand and so dwarfed by the shadow of his successful older brothers. Now he was a tall, confident young man who was proud of who he was. He and Harry were brothers all but by blood; Ron didn't need to hear Harry say how much his friendship meant to him, they both knew there was no need for words. It made Harry smile to think of how bright the future was looking for the youngest Weasley boy; whilst his marks might prevent him joining Harry amongst the Aurors, he had been accepted into the reserves for the Chudley Cannons and would finally be playing professional Quidditch for his all-time favourite team. Though he would never say it to Harry, Harry knew that this was a greater dream for him than being an Auror, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

As for Hermione . . . well, he didn't know where to start thinking about her. She had changed the most out of the three of them, he thought, yet in some ways she had also changed the least. Harry could still remember the first time he'd met her on the train, feeling quite intimidated as the girl with bushy hair and rather large front teeth, seemingly knowing everything, had spoken to him quite breathlessly. Now that girl was a young woman; her hair was still rather bushy, and she still knew everything, but there was something whole-heartedly different about her that only the people who knew her as well as Harry and Ron did could see. She saw the world differently than she did as a girl of eleven. Back then she would have believed that the answers to anything could be found with books and enough patience; whilst her love of books and knowledge still remained, she now knew that there were some things, important things, that had to be found elsewhere. Nothing was more important to her than her friends; she was a powerful, beautiful young witch who would do anything for the people she loved.

This was, Harry thought, what he loved the most about her.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when his feelings for his female best friend had begun to change. Looking back, he considered that it had been a gradual thing ever since the first time he'd met her. The realisation had come nearly two years ago, not long after he'd revealed the prophecy to his best friends. The look in her eyes had been one of utter terror, and it was one he'd never wanted to cause again. He had known at that moment that he wanted to make happiness appear in those eyes, and warmth. He had known that he loved her, loved her more than just a friend, and that there was no other girl that could ever come close to her. Everything about her was beautiful. Her hair, still bushy and frizzy, that was longer than ever and tumbled down nearly to her waist. Her brown eyes that sparkled whenever she laughed or found something exciting in a new book. The tiniest little dimple that formed whenever she smiled. The frown that creased her brow when she would chew on her quill in concentration. She was truly gorgeous, and she would never believe it. In her heart she was still the nerdy bookworm that no boy would ever dream of considering attractive. How he longed to be the one to show her how wrong she was.

But no. Harry knew that the feelings he had for her would never be returned. Theirs was a truly great friendship, there was a bond between them that no-one could match, but Harry knew that Hermione would never see him in the way he saw her. And it hurt. It pained him more than he would ever admit, even more so than the all-too familiar searing brought on by his scar so frequently those days. So he quietly adored her. He took solace in the fact that he was lucky enough to have her as a friend, and that no matter what she would always be a part of his life. Even if his life wasn't going to be that much longer.

"Harry?"

He shook his head, clearing himself of his thoughts. Hermione was smiling at him questioningly, and he wondered how long he'd been adrift in his thoughts.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "In a world of my own."

The fire was casting a red glow to the brown of her hair. Merlin, she was beautiful.

"You all right, mate?" Ron asked him.

"Yeah," Harry replied. "I was just thinking, that's all . . . I couldn't ask for better friends than you guys, you know that right? You two are the best thing that ever happened to me."

Ron went rather red and Hermione's cheeks turned quite pink as they both blushed.

"Steady on," said Ron, grinning. "No need to get all mushy on us."

"I just wanted you guys to know, that's all."

"We know, Harry," Hermione said warmly. The look in her eyes told him that the feeling was mutual for all of them. Harry felt a warmth that had nothing to do with his closeness to the fire.

It was at that moment that the door to the portrait hole swung open. Many of the Gryffindors turned expecting to see Professor McGonagall ready to chastise them for the noise from the party, but were surprised when Albus Dumbledore stepped through, his long blue robes trailing around him. His face was grave, and while the corner of his mouth twitched towards a grin at the sight of the empty butterbeer bottles and other detritus from the party it vanished almost instantly. Someone switched off the music, and a hushed silence fell as he walked slowly towards Harry, Hermione and Ron. He stopped a short distance away from them. Harry's stomach had fallen as soon as Dumbledore had entered the room, the warm feeling from only a moment ago already long gone and replaced by one of ice. Ron had gone very white, and Hermione's bottom lip was twitching fearfully. Dumbledore's blue eyes, hidden as always behind his half-moon spectacles, were filled with pity and remorse. When he spoke it was very softly, but such was the silence that everyone in the room heard his words.

"Harry," he said sadly. "It's time."

- - -

Harry had been called to Dumbledore's office just over two weeks before, to be told that Voldemort was setting things in motion. Whilst he apparently still didn't trust Snape enough to make him privy to the exact details of his plans, Snape had been told enough to inform them Voldemort would make his move soon. Harry had accepted it; he wanted it over. The first week had passed very slowly, nervously, but by the end of the second week he had begun to return to normal. Maybe Snape had been wrong. There had been nothing to suggest he had been right.

Now, Harry felt sick.

There had been a few startled gasps at Dumbledore's words. Everyone knew what they meant. Harry's throat had gone very dry, and as he looked around at his classmates he saw many of them had gone pale. He somehow forced himself to look at Ron and Hermione. Ron was staring at the floor, shaking his head, and Hermione's hands were clamped tightly over her mouth. She was whimpering.

"I guess . . ." he began, and then stood up slowly. "I guess I'd better get ready."

The walk across the room and up the stairs to his dormitory seemed much longer than usual. His feet seemed to have huge weights attached to them which made it harder to walk than normal. Finally he was there, standing alone in the room that was perhaps the closest thing that had ever felt like a home to him. There was his bed. There was his trunk filled with his clothes. His cauldron poked out from underneath the bed. His Firebolt leaned next to the little dresser beside the bed, on which rested the case for his glasses and a few spare chocolate frog cards.

None of it mattered anymore.

He knew what the plan was. He, along with Dumbledore, the members of the Order of the Phoenix and the entire Auror division, had discussed it many times. It was he, Harry, who alone could stop Voldemort. The Prophecy said so. Only Harry had this unknown power, the "power he knows not" that could put an end to the Dark Lord. It had been agreed. When they knew for certain that Voldemort was going to strike, the Aurors and Order members would engage the Death Eaters and draw them away. Harry would face Voldemort alone.

And now that time had come.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Like Ron and Hermione, he too had changed. He was no longer a short, skinny boy of eleven. The seventeen year-old that stared back at him from the mirror was tall and athletic. His black hair, still unruly as ever and always with a mind of it's own, was now a little longer. It still stuck up at the back. The glasses he wore now were narrow and black, but still emphasised the startling green of the eyes given to him by his mother. And still the scar was there, forever a testament to the fateful night when it had all began.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he let out his first involuntary sob.

Harry had very rarely cried in his life. He could remember all the times when he had felt most afraid: back when he was little boy of three or four, trapped in that awful cupboard beneath the stairs that had been so frightening, where it was dark and dirty and things crawled over him in the night. A few years after that, when Dudley and his gang had beaten him so badly that he couldn't see. The first time he boarded the Hogwarts Express, so afraid that he wouldn't fit in. The Dementors swarming around him, a mass of black robes and rotted hands and the screams of his dying mother echoing in his head. When Voldemort had risen from the cauldron, turning those snakelike red eyes upon him. When the Death Eater had struck Hermione with purple flame across the chest, and she'd crumpled to floor with a surprised "oh" . . .

He hadn't cried at any of those times. But now he did. All the despair rose up in him and he sobbed, sinking to the floor against his bed wretchedly. He cried for parents, for Sirius, for all the suffering he'd endured in his life. And most of all, he cried for the fact that his life might soon be over.

"It's not fair," he whispered as the tears subsided. "It's not fair . . ."

He was only seventeen. There was so much that he still wanted to do. But now he never would.

_You sound like it's already over, _said the familiar voice inside his head. _You sound like you're already dead._

"I'm as good as," he said quietly, wiping his face.

_Nothing is decided yet. Remember that._

He expected the voice to say more, but it was gone. He stood up and picked up a framed photograph from the dresser; in it were his parents, laughing as James twirled Lily around in a spin as they danced on a solitary bandstand. It brought a smile to his face even then, and it calmed him. His parents would not want him to despair. He would try to be strong, not just for them but for his friends as well. Slowly and carefully he began packing his things away into his trunk. When it was only his clothes left he stopped and looked again at himself in the mirror: he was still wearing his school uniform - they all had been - and for some reason it felt wrong. What he wore should be least of his worries, he knew, but he didn't want to face Voldemort as simply a Hogwarts student. He undressed, and put on a pair of jeans that were torn at the knee and a rather frayed hooded sweatshirt. Both had belonged to Dudley, like most of his clothes, and were still a bit too big for him even now. But they felt right. He pulled on his favourite trainers, and then he finished by putting on his school travelling cloak, which had the Gryffindor lion embroidered on the breast. He looked in the mirror for a final time and nodded at himself. It felt right. This was who he was.

"You look nice, dear," the mirror told him.

"Thank you."

There was a knock at the door, and Harry turned to see Ron enter. He was still quite pale, and was wringing his hands together.

"Dumbledore told us the plan," Ron said. "He told us all what's going to happen."

Harry nodded.

"I want to come with you, mate. I want to help you. I know Hermione does too."

"You can't, Ron. You both can't. You know that. I have to face him alone."

"I know, I know . . . I just feel useless! We're supposed to be in this together, the three of us! It's not right that you have to fight him by yourself!"

"I know it isn't," Harry told him, grasping his friend's arm. "But that's how it is. I couldn't do it with you or Hermione there, if something were to happen to either of you . . ."

Ron said nothing, but his face showed understanding. Harry began putting the last of his clothes into his trunk, folding them neatly, before finally placing the picture of his parents in last. Ron watched him do this in silence before finally speaking up.

"You think you're not coming back."

Harry looked down into the trunk as he replied.

"I honestly don't know. I hope I'm coming back, I hope that more than anything in the world, but . . . I might not be."

He looked over at Ron, who he could see was equally angry, scared and downright upset and doing his best to control it all.

"You've known it might happen," Harry told him. "Ever since you heard the prophecy."

"I know. Believe me mate, I've thought about it. It still doesn't make it any easier to see your best friend packing his life away as if it's about to end!"

"You think this is easy for me?" Harry yelled hotly. "Do you think I'm ready to die? Do you think I'm ready to leave all this? To never see my best friend again? To never get to tell Hermione how much I love her? How much she means to me?"

Ron's eyes widened in surprise at this revelation, and the anger between the both of them died away.

"I'm sorry Ron," Harry said meaningfully. "I don't want . . . if this really is the end, I don't want us to part angry."

He took something from inside the trunk and placed it in his pocket before closing the trunk carefully, snapping the catches shut.

Ron, by his own admission, was never one for "that emotional stuff" so his next move surprised Harry completely. He grabbed him and hugged him, hard.

"You're the best mate ever," he said quietly.

Harry chuckled and returned his friend's embrace.

"So are you."

After a few more moments of hugging and back patting Ron released Harry, very red-faced and obviously very keen to recover his masculinity.

"I'd, er, better let you finish then. Um . . . don't be too long, all right? Everyone's waiting."

Harry smiled and stowed his wand in one of his jeans pockets.

"It's okay, I'm done. Let's go."

- - -

His feet no longer felt like weights were attached as he followed Ron down to the common room; instead the weights were now attached to his heart. The thought that this could be the last time he saw everybody continued to grip him and would not relinquish its hold. The strength that looking at his parent's picture had brought him was already struggling against the grief at the prospect of saying his final goodbyes to those he cared for . . . and yes, those he loved.

Everyone was waiting for him, just like Ron had said.

They were standing in a sort of haphazard line. He could hear the occasional sniffle and could see that many of their eyes were shiny with tears. It was a moving sight for Harry, that so many people would care so much about him. Ron clapped him on the shoulder softly before heading off towards the back of the line, where no doubt Hermione was waiting. Harry was glad of that, as he knew that she had to be the last person he said goodbye to. It wouldn't be right otherwise.

He smiled as best he could and walked towards them all. Some stepped forward and hugged him; there were more friendly embraces and handshakes. Not many words were exchanged. Some whispered "Good luck" or "See you soon, Harry." When he reached the group of his closest friends Lavender and Parvati were both sobbing too much to say anything and hugged him at the same time, nearly winding him in the process. Harry hugged them back as best as he could.

"Take care of yourselves, girls."

There was more sobbing as they released him.

"Best of luck to you, Harry," said Seamus.

"Yeah, good luck mate," added Dean. They both shook his hand and Harry nodded his thanks. Neville was having none of it, however, and embraced him almost as tightly as Lavender and Parvati.

"Take care, Neville," Harry managed weakly.

"You'll come back," Neville told him firmly as he released him. "I know you will."

"I hope so," Harry replied quietly. He was almost at the end of the line, and had reached the three people whom he knew it would be hardest to let go of.

He approached Ginny first.

The youngest Weasley was still crying, but quietly, and the tears were shining on her cheeks. She had changed so much since he'd first met her, just like the others, but as he pulled her into a hug he was reminded of that shy little girl he'd known all those years ago.

"I don't want you to go, Harry," she said quietly. She had stopped crying now.

"I don't want to go either, Ginevra, but I have to."

The use of her name had made her smile, even now. He was the only one she allowed to call her by her real name. Gently he wiped the tears from her cheeks and then kissed her forehead tenderly. All of the Weasleys had essentially accepted him as part of their family, and Ginny felt like a sister to him. It made it all the harder to say goodbye.

"You're going to be something great," he told her, and she both laughed and sobbed at the same time.

"Love you, Harry."

"Love you too."

He turned then to Ron, his best friend in the whole world. Even the solemnity of the occasion couldn't stop Harry grinning as Ron hurriedly wiped one eye with his sleeve.

"You almost got away with that," Harry said.

"Yeah," Ron agreed, beginning to go red again. "Almost."

Harry was the one who grabbed his friend this time around, and they embraced each other fiercely.

"I don't think I really need to say anything," Harry told him quietly.

"No need, mate. No need."

And they were both right. No words were needed to express how important their friendship had been and always would be. With a final pat on the back the friends released each other and Ron rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. He stepped back and, swallowing nervously, Harry finally turned to her.

His heart ached.

She too had obviously been crying. Hermione's eyes were red and their usual sparkle was gone, replaced by a look of utter despair. Her arms hung limply at her sides. She looked very small.

"Hermione."

He held his arms out to her, and she was there. She hugged him as if her life depended on it. He felt her begin to cry again and he did his best to comfort her even as he fought to control his own tears which were threatening to spill again. He stroked her hair and held her as close to him as possible. He was aware of the eyes of all the other Gryffindors upon them but he didn't care.

"Don't cry, Hermione. It's going to be all right."

She said something but he couldn't tell what; her head was buried in the crook of his neck and the words came out muffled.

"What?" he asked softly.

She looked up at him, and even with her eyes all red and her face streaked with tears he still couldn't believe how beautiful she looked.

"I-I said . . . w-what if you d-don't come back?"

He closed his eyes for a moment sadly, and remembered something that Dumbledore had once told him.

"I'll never truly be gone, as long as the people I care about remember me."

They were very close now. Her hands were resting on the front of his shoulders and he was holding her by the waist. He removed one of his hands now though and reached for the item in his pocket that he'd taken from his trunk.

"I want you to have something," he told her, and took it out. Her eyes widened as he held the necklace up for her to see. A small crystal attached to a length of silver chain. There was seemingly nothing special about it, but even in her emotional state Hermione realised that it's beauty was in it's simplicity. As the light from the fire caught it she could make out the faintest of etchings: _"JP LE"_

"It belonged to my Mum," Harry told her. "Remus gave it to me last year."

He pressed the necklace into one of her hands and closed the hand around it gently.

"He said my Dad gave it to Mum during their last year at Hogwarts, when he . . . when he finally told her he loved her."

He looked deeply in her eyes as he said this, hoping that she understood what it meant. What he meant.

The sparkle was returning.

"I love you, Hermione," he whispered.

"I love you too, Harry," she whispered in return.

Their lips met, so softly, and in that moment nothing else mattered. It didn't matter that he was about to leave to possibly meet his death at the hands of the greatest Dark Wizard of all time. It didn't matter that he would probably never see his friends again. It didn't even matter that he was kissing Hermione in front of all his friends, some of whom were audibly sighing.

In that perfect moment, he was happy.

He loved her, and still to his complete amazement, she loved him.

The kiss over, they rested their foreheads together. He took her hands, which were warm and fitted so perfectly into his own. How he wanted to stay there with her. But Dumbledore cleared his throat softly.

"I am sorry, Harry, but it's time to go."

Harry nodded at him and turned back to the girl he loved.

"Come back to me, Harry," was all she said.

He held her gaze, so honest and unflinching. His heart ached again. How he wanted to promise her that he would come back. But he couldn't.

"Trust me, Hermione," he told her. "If I do come back . . . it'll be for you."

He gave her hands a final squeeze, and then tore himself away from her. He nodded to Dumbledore again, who produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Harry. As Dumbledore raised his wand Harry looked around at his friends one more time, his eyes finally settling on Hermione.

_"Portus."_

The handkerchief gave off a white glow in Harry's hand. He felt the familiar tug. There was a popping sound, and just like that, the Boy Who Lived went to meet his destiny.

- - -


End file.
